


Floating

by Shaish



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 02:09:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2370527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaish/pseuds/Shaish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's like floating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Floating

Floating.

That’s what it feels like. Before the deep set of darkness and the slow, molasses of thought trickling to a stop. It feels like floating.

Between the space of the cold making everything numb - so cold he can’t feel it anymore - and the slowing of his pulse (a heavy _thump. Thump...Thump…_ ). It’s all he can hear, before he can’t hear anything anymore.

He has the thought, slow and taking its time to come, that he should be panicking. He should be scared of the frost he felt on his skin before the sensations were lost, he should be scared of his disappearing reflection and the almost welcoming look to the ice that quickly crept up along it in his eyes.

He should be scared of never seeing anything but the dark again.

But he isn’t, and he’s not sure when it stopped scaring him. If it ever did. He’s not sure when he became like this, so far removed from most of what made him...him, that he finds he doesn’t feel anything but familiarity for it anymore.

He’s sure Bucky would be sad if he knew. Mad, definitely, but he thinks the sadness would be the most prevalent, and that only Natasha or Clint, or maybe Sam, would be the only other people aware enough to notice it. That he’d be the only one able to really _see_ it.

But Bucky’s not here, not yet, because the last Steve heard in his comm was Bucky shouting his name, and the last thought he has is of being underwater, of light fading out of it as he looks up, and the lack of it turning it from a bright blue to a winter blue-gray, just like Bucky’s eyes.

\--

_“...-ap?”_

_“...-breathing yet? I can’t find-...”_

_“...-teve…?”_

\--

The sound of something fluttering fades in from the black, and there’s a radio playing somewhere nearby, all smooth beats and slow jazz, a light, warm breeze faintly registering across his skin. And for one, horrifying moment, he thinks he might be waking up in that mock-40’s room in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s New York office for the first time all over again. And then it occurs to him: What if it actually _is_ the 40’s this time? For one, terrifying minute, he’s afraid to open his eyes. Not because he’s scared he’ll wake up in the present, but because he’s terrified he’ll wake up in the _past_.

He’s not the same man he used to be, and he realizes: He doesn’t know if he could fit into 1945 again.

He doesn’t know if he could talk with Peggy like nothing happened, take her dancing like he said he would. Doesn’t know if he could joke with Howard or be able to stand at attention in front of Colonel Phillips. Doesn’t know if he could handle all of the sepia and gold of _1945_ , when he’s been living in the _soft harsh **bright**_ of 2014. He’s terrified to realize, if he opens his eyes and he’s back in 1945, he’ll be the exact same stranger he’s been in 2014.

Fury won’t be there behind his sleek desk, Hill at his right like his best knight, watching everything for any cracks in armor she can find.

Tony won’t be giving Clint crap over their differing opinions on which lightweight metal is best for arrows with Bruce looking on with a patient smile-

_“ **This** withstands more force.” “But **this** one gives it more airspeed! Barton, just let me **design the damn thing** -”_

Thor won’t be on his fourth of eight boxes of pizza while trying to figure out if he likes soap operas or not-

_“I do not understand why she will not just tell her lover that she has been seeing another.” he’d said, rubbing his beard-in-progress, “My shield brother Fandral faced a similar dilemma. He ended up bedding both together.”_

Natasha won’t be reading her books in the corner arm chair with the best view of the room, old hardcover backs in English, Russian, Spanish, Pepper suggesting something in French as she takes a moment to stop and chat and JARVIS puts in Natasha’s book orders.

Sam won’t be grinning from ear to ear and bragging about his new wings, checking over the details and giving them a polished shine with a pleased hum.

And Bucky. Bucky won’t be there, with his metal fingers reflecting the afternoon sunlight spilling in through the Tower’s windows, hair pulled back and bangs a gentle curtain, blocking just enough of the light for him to smile over at Steve, still worn and torn and frayed at the edges, but slowly patching himself back together.

And Steve’s come to love that Bucky, the Bucky he is now.

It was hard, and it wasn’t, and he doesn’t know if he could stand to see a Bucky who doesn’t eye kitchen appliances like bombs that could go off any second, a Bucky who doesn’t jump at the _ding_ of the microwave finishing, or a Bucky who doesn’t yell profanities in Russian at the tv when their favorite baseball team starts to lose.

he doesn’t know if he could handle a Bucky who smiles freely, without the shadows of seventy years of pain behind his eyes but still manages that same warmth that’s always been at his core since the day Steve met him. He doesn’t know if he could handle a Bucky who doesn’t sharpen his knives on the floor, the number always changing.

_“I thought you had twelve,” Steve said, frowning down at the arsenal._

_Bucky glanced up at him briefly before looking down at the array laid out on the floor._

_“I don’t sharpen them all at once, Stevie,” he’d said, “What do you think I am? A psychotic killer?”_

And Bucky had cracked a dark smile, but there’d been enough humor in it for Steve to let out a quiet laugh, because Bucky was _trying_. And it’s a slow process, always will be, but Bucky’s gotten to the point where he _can_ try and joke about it, and it’s _working_ -

“Stevie,” he hears, soft, quiet, frayed. He opens his eyes.

Bucky’s sitting at his left - because Sam’s somehow taken up the station of his right since they first met - and his hair is pulled back in a ponytail, his bangs curtains at the sides of his face. He’s got stubble on his cheeks and his eyes are a little red, like he hasn’t slept in a week (again). Bucky cracks a smile.

“Hey, Steve,” he says, still soft, still quiet, still frayed, “It’s about time you woke up.” His voice cracks, and Steve’s afraid to blink, afraid this Bucky will go away if he does.

But he does blink when Bucky does, and Bucky’s still a fractured man at his bedside after. The walls are white, not a faded yellow, and the lights are harsh instead of a memory glow. The air is warm, and so is Bucky’s relieved smile, and Steve breathes.


End file.
